Love the Way You Lie
by ShayaLonnie
Summary: She can't say the words. She can't even breathe for fear of what would happen to her if she said them. There's a steel knife in her windpipe, blocking out oxygen and words and the courage she thinks she might have if she could grasp it tight enough and just run. — Sing Me A Rare OS Comp 2017 Winner: Best Characterisation, One You Wish Could Be Canon; Runner Up: Best Use of Song


**Warning** : Rated M for explicit language, violence, unhealthy relationships, and sexual content. This story is Canon Divergent. For further disclaimers and warnings, make sure to read my profile. [Updated Oct 2017.]

 **A/N** : In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the SingMeARareOSComp collection. Prompt: Love The Way You Lie, by Eminem ft Rihanna "I can only tell you what it feels like. And right now there's a steel knife, in my windpipe." Winner: Best Characterisation, One You Wish Could Be Canon. Runner Up: Best Use of Song

 **Beta Love** : LuceFray27 and BirdieMing

* * *

 **Love the Way You Lie**

* * *

The sound of crying drags Pansy down the corridor even though it's floors above where she knows she should be.

Running late for curfew because she spent all night in the library revising for N.E.W.T.s is no excuse, especially since she pissed off the Carrows by refusing to volunteer that morning in Dark Arts as a prop for the Imperius Curse. She had been an unwilling participant in the first class on the Cruciatus, and she had suffered for both being unable to cast the spell her first try and for "making a ruckus" when it had been cast _on_ her.

She knew that Vince had not put his all into the spell, but even poorly cast torture still hurt like fuck. All of her friends had stood by, watching as she cried on the floor, unable to do a damned thing to stop it from happening. They knew they'd be next; no one was exempt.

So when Pansy hears crying echoing from around the corner with that distinctive hitch at the end of a pained gasp, she runs with her wand out on instinct. She _knows_ that hitch, and the sound of it reminds her of how her own little gasping breath in between screams had felt like sandpaper on an open wound.

" _Expelliarmus_!" she shouts, hating herself just a little because although it's been a spell since the dawn of fucking magic, she can't cast it without thinking of Harry Potter or hearing Draco bitching about him in the back of her mind.

A wand flies into her hand, and she throws it in the face of a fifth year Ravenclaw who has the acumen to look terrified when confronted with her wrath. Pansy might have lost her ability to intimidate her own friends years ago—Vince and Greg notwithstanding—but people in other Houses still think that she's a monster because of the colour of her robes, even when _they're_ the ones practising Unforgivables on second years in the corridors.

Saying too much right now will cause problems.

Slytherin or not, the Carrows don't give two shits if you baulk in the face of their demands.

 _"Practice makes perfect,"_ Amycus Carrow had said when all the prefects were held back after Dark Arts, reminded to use Unforgiveables on any rule-breakers.

Pansy glares at the Ravenclaw, wanting to tell him that even at her worst, she never would have hurt a little girl, nevermind with a fucking Cruciatus. She hopes that her narrowed eyes are hard enough that the boy will be too frightened to tattle on her.

The Ravenclaw runs.

The little Hufflepuff is shaking on the ground, tears still wet in her eyes even though the ones on her face were quickly drying. Pansy has to be careful not to show too much compassion or she'll be on the end of a wand herself if anyone sees her trying to help the girl.

She recognises her as the daughter of a blood-traitor family. Not even a good one. Not ones that were in open defiance of the Dark Lord. She isn't a Weasley, for Merlin's sake. The girl is a pureblood, and Pansy feels a twinge of confusion and anger because wasn't that what this was all about in the first place? Weren't they at war to keep their world and magic and blood pure from the Muggles who wanted to ruin it all? Weren't they trying to _save_ pureblood families? What were they becoming if they turned on their own?

Pansy doesn't have a chance to make a decision about what to do about the Hufflepuff, because a thick, muscular forearm is suddenly pressing on her sternum, shoving her back into the cold, stone wall behind her. Her head thunks on a low-hanging sconce, and she hisses; it hurts, but really, she's just pissed off at this point.

She hears an echoey "Are you okay?" followed by a stern order of "Seamus, get her back to the room with the others. Tell Susan to take care of her injuries."

Pansy knows that voice, and when her head clears a little and her vision focuses, she looks right into the narrowed eyes of Neville Longbottom and has to force herself not to spit in his stupid face.

It's bothersome that he's strong enough to hold her in place and has the foresight to angle his body in a way that prevents her from introducing his cock to her kneecap—a signature move that she perfected after the Yule Ball when Blaise mentioned that Granger looked prettier than Pansy had.

It's even more annoying that she can hear Daphne's voice in the back of her mind commenting idly over how fit Longbottom had become. Pansy thinks that magic was involved; knowing Longbottom, he probably found some rare plant that tones muscles without effort and relocates baby fat in cheeks to other parts. He probably swallowed it on accident. Maybe he was trying to snog it.

It's really annoying, though, because she's certain that this demanding presence he now has was not accidental.

He has a scar bisecting his left eyebrow. She remembers how he got it. He'd confronted Alecto Carrow in class, asking how much Muggle blood she had. It made the cow look like a stuttering moron when she couldn't answer coherently. He took the hex in stride, looked her in the eye, and spat in the bitch's face.

Merlin, it was hot.

Not that Pansy would say as much out loud.

Longbottom is an enigma. What's more, is that sightings of him are as rare as a fucking demiguise these days. He's a right thorn in the Carrows' arse, and everyone knows that he's behind the students that have gone missing. All of Gryffindor House and half of Hufflepuff were gone by the end of February. The seventh year Ravenclaws disappeared just after Easter.

All of Slytherin is still present and accounted for each morning when they file into the Great Hall for breakfast and announcements. To Pansy's knowledge, none of them have been invited to join the super-secret-and-still-recruiting Dumbledore's Army. _What a stupid name_.

The hateful look in Longbottom's eyes makes Pansy feel drunk; it's a bit of a thrill to feel like she has the power to affect someone this way instead of feeling defenseless and scared.

She's _so_ fucking scared.

All the time.

"Neville."

Pansy follows Longbottom's gaze to Finnegan, who looks like he lost a fight against a mountain troll; his face is swollen and bruised. He takes a moment to glare at Pansy before saying, "She says that Parkinson helped her. It was someone else that cursed her."

Hateful expression gone, Longbottom pulls his arm back away from Pansy as though she's on fire. She _feels_ like she's on fire. Now, instead of being in the middle of it with her, Longbottom is just standing around and watching the flames lick at her skin.

She hates that she wants his help. She hates it even more that, for a split second, he looks as though he wants to offer it.

Finnegan disappears around the corner without another word.

Pansy knows they've got a hideout somewhere in the castle. Despite the scars and bruises on Longbottom's face, she assumes wherever they are is safe because he doesn't look like he's in pain or terrified. Gryffindor or not, Longbottom had perfected the expression of being frightened years ago.

In the face of a potential out, Pansy can't breathe.

It's wrong to even _think_ about siding with these blood traitors, but her own people—and she stopped thinking of them like that a long time ago—have lost the plot and are turning pureblood against pureblood. Something is incredibly wrong with that. Still, the thought of being found by the Dark Lord amongst traitors and rebels has her lashing out at him angrily. She _can_ fight, so she _does_ fight—brandishing her wand with a tight grip.

Longbottom is shockingly fast, and Pansy's hand is pinned to the wall again. His grip is actually painful, but compared to the Cruciatus, she thinks she likes the way that this hurts.

He doesn't look at her hatefully like he did before.

He looks confused.

He looks annoyed.

That irritation gives way, and for a split second, he looks just a bit amused by her.

She almost wants to smile at him. She almost wants this to be a game.

She wants wrong to feel right.

"Why did you save that girl?"

Her almost-smile goes away.

It's not as though Longbottom will sell her out to the Carrows, but the memory of the Cruciatus Curse has her lips pinched tight. The memory of the look on their faces when they told her to lend herself to the Imperius Curse makes her stomach turn over and over, and she wants to be sick. She remembers Daphne telling Astoria before Christmas to stop thinking that Harry Potter will save them because he's not going to rush into the castle and save _Slytherins_. Draco looked like he wanted to object, but he kept silent.

Slytherins have to save each other.

Potter won't save them. Potter sure as hell would never save _Pansy_.

She wonders if _Longbottom_ would.

Maybe.

She opens her mouth, wondering if the words "Take me with you" are even in her vocabulary. She doesn't know how to form her lips to say them. Her heart beats fast as she thinks about how Draco never came back from Easter hols. Though no one could confirm his whereabouts—Snape assured them that he was fine—Pansy secretly wonders if the Dark Lord had fed her best friend to his snake.

 _Take me with you_ , she thinks, wishing that Longbottom was a Legilimens. _I don't want to die_.

She can't say the words.

She can't even breathe for fear of what would happen to her _if_ she said them.

There's a steel knife in her windpipe, blocking out oxygen and words and the courage she thinks she might have if she could grasp it tight enough and just fucking run.

Longbottom looks confused again as he watches her shake with the attempt to hide how terrified and angry she is. He licks his lips and slowly lets her hand go, stepping back from her. Pansy immediately notices the sudden chill that the absence of his body has created. She hadn't even realised he had been pressed right up against her.

That creates a whole new set of strange thoughts that make her traitorous heart beat harder. It doesn't matter _why_ it's now pounding in her chest, it all feels like panic and terror these days.

"Do you need help?" he tentatively asks.

Her mind goes blank, and her instincts all but shut off. There are no thoughts, only the frantic way her heart is beating, and that scares her.

She licks her dry lips, takes a breath, and lies.

"No."

* * *

The war ends.

Pansy still doesn't feel safe.

She's still angry.

Despite being flesh and bone like any other wizard, Voldemort becomes a mythical thing of legend. The monster that Harry Potter slayed. It means that stories will be written, songs will be sung, and people who still feel angry about being wronged will look to living enemies for retribution.

Pansy becomes a prime target.

She actually laughs to herself as she thinks of how she sounded when she pointed out Potter in the middle of the Great Hall as though no one else could see him. Stupidly, she thought she had been acting bravely. Yes, she wanted to live, but she also wanted to spare those she loved. People had already died, for fuck's sake. What was one more death in the face of hundreds of casualties or more?

What pisses her off most is that Potter apparently just turned himself over to Voldemort anyway, so if Pansy had kept her mouth shut, no one would have singled her out when all was said and done. She really hates Potter for it. He's a hero for basically doing the same thing that Pansy suggested happen, but _she's_ a coward and a traitor.

Aurors that willingly followed Voldemort and the Ministry during his reign try to prove their switched loyalty to Kingsley Shacklebolt by being cruel to captured Death Eaters. Not all are captured though. Likely to compensate for escaped murderers, Pansy is rounded up with Draco and a handful of other Slytherins that had never had anything to do with the war.

There's apparently a lot of fighting within the Ministry as the new regime tries to make sense of who they can trust. Truth begins to pour into the _Daily Prophet_ —which is an interesting change of pace—and the world finds out that apparently Voldemort had been a half-blood named Tom Riddle. Pansy has to hear this through whispers from Azkaban guards because she's thrown in a cell until it can be proved that she wasn't secretly a Death Eater.

Screaming "Look at my arm, you stupid cunts!" doesn't help her, and she tries to bite back insults, but she's never been very good at holding her tongue when she's angry or scared.

Now she's both.

Days or maybe weeks later, Harry Potter opens her cell looking guilty.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," he says. "I know you were just scared."

He forgives her even though she never apologises for trying to be brave.

She leaves her cell silently, vowing to never be brave again. Courage has never done her any favours.

Longbottom is on the dock helping Weasley and two men in Auror robes hand out regulated Portkeys to take the former prisoners away from Azkaban. Weasley gives her a dirty look. Potter forgave her, but clearly his best friend still thinks that she's lower than hippogriff shit. Longbottom casts a glance in her direction after pressing a Portkey into Theo's open hand.

Pansy watches as her friend vanishes away with the magic, and she makes eye contact with Longbottom.

He has an ugly burn on the side of his head just above his ear. It's healing, and there are signs of magical balms, of course, but a good chunk of his hair is missing. She remembers hearing that Voldemort stuck the Sorting Hat on his head and lit the bloody thing on fire. What did the idiot do? Sat there until he had a chance to run, and instead of fleeing, he drew a sword out of the hat like it was Excalibur and he was some predestined King of England, and slayed the monster's monstrous pet.

What a tosser.

He smiles at her softly, and she glares at him.

She's not sure why she hates him more than even Potter or Weasley right then. Maybe because she thinks he knew. He knew she was scared. He knew she needed help. He knew she had been lying.

He holds a Portkey out to her—it's a butterbeer cap, but it looks like an olive branch.

Without looking away from him, she holds her hand out to Weasley instead. She cringes at the idea of the ginger touching her, and she holds back a grimace when she feels him stick a Portkey in her hand.

Longbottom actually looks hurt by her rejection of him in this moment, and she tries to think of something witty or scathing she could say to him, but the magic takes her away before she has a chance to.

* * *

Pansy spends the next few years rebuilding the reputation of her family. Despite the fact that they would have praised her endlessly if Voldemort had won, her parents remain angry that she supposedly "ruined them all" for trying to hand over Potter to the Dark Lord in a moment of weakness.

She's polite and pretty whenever she's in public, taking the scorn in stride.

When she sees someone hex Draco from across the street in Diagon Alley, she pulls out her earrings and kicks off her heels. She's been warned not to use magic against anyone for fear that she might be accused of something nefarious, and when she punches Zacharias Smith in the face for attacking Draco, the only thing she regrets is the fact that one of her nails breaks. It hurts, but the pleased look on Draco's face is worth it, and she feels like somehow both of them got something back in that moment.

That is, until someone hits her with a poorly-aimed Stinging Hex. It barely grazes the top of her foot, but Pansy yelps in pain as her ankle begins to swell.

A crowd begins to gather.

She doesn't know who any of these people are, but they all begin shouting.

Draco tries to pull her away as the mob descends on them both.

"Stop!" a familiar voice yells.

Pansy feels a hand on her shoulder and a cold burst of panic fills her chest. On instinct, she flings her arm back, accidentally hitting Granger in the face.

"Shit," she mutters, realising too late that the Gryffindor had been trying to intervene on her and Draco's behalf. But now Pansy has physically assaulted Hermione fucking Granger in view of at least forty people. She shares a look of trepidation with the Muggle-born, who draws her wand and tries to create a barrier between them and the majority of the crowd.

Pansy and Draco run just as the booming sound of Aurors apparating onto the scene rings in her ears. She knows they can do it silently, but it makes a grand and intimidating entrance when everyone can hear them arrive.

Just as they turn a corner, Draco is yanked away from her, and all Pansy can see is the flash of Auror robes followed by a softer crack of disapparation.

"Parkinson?"

Spinning on her bare feet, her eyes widen as Longbottom stands in front of her. He has supplicating hands out as though she's a wild animal, and she has a sudden strange urge to pull his hair, scratch, claw, and bite him. He's wearing Auror robes, and her hatred for the D.M.L.E in general has her lashing out.

She gets in his personal space, spewing venom with words that don't even reach her own ears. She must say some pretty offensive stuff, though, because he looks scandalised by it. Only _then_ do her words come back to her, and she realises that she _might_ have told him that just because he's fit doesn't mean that she's going to blow him right there in the alley. She doesn't even know why she said it.

The blush on his cheeks, however, is the best thing she's seen all day, and she lets out a laugh at Longbottom's expense. "That virgin look is positively adorable, Longbottom."

His eyes widen, the cherry on top of that hilariously innocent expression, but then his eyes darken just a fraction, and Pansy swallows wondering if she's either nervous or excited that she technically just propositioned an Auror.

"Neville."

Pansy blinks, confused. "What?"

"If you're going to talk to me like that, you might as well call me Neville."

She panics a bit, swallowing hard as she throws her shoulders back and points an indignant finger up at him, ignoring how bloody tall he is. "If you think I'm actually going to blow—"

"I don't," he cuts in, his eyes drawn to her hand in his face. "You're bleeding and—why aren't you wearing shoes? Nevermind. Do you need help?"

His robes are hanging open. They look dirty. He looks tired.

"You're not on duty?"

Longbottom—Neville—shakes his head. "Just off, actually. Was headed to Florean's when I heard a commotion. Came down the back way to see what was happening; saw you."

"You're not here to arrest me?"

His slight amusement changes to a stern, worried look. "Have you done something wrong?"

"I punched a Hufflepuff in the face."

Neville looked back at her bleeding hand. Pansy can't tell if his expression of concern is for her or her opponent. "Who?"

"Zacharias Smith," she says, unable to stop herself from laughing at the memory. To her surprise, Neville laughs too.

"What a shit," he says. "Did he deserve it?"

"Encouraging violence, Auror Longbottom?" she asks with a teasing grin, finding it a bit of a thrill to see him smile at that.

"Neville," he corrects her again.

Pansy licks her lips, watching as he stares at her mouth and mirrors the gesture.

"Neville."

* * *

Neville doesn't encourage violence, per se, but he doesn't stop her when she rakes her nails down his back. He doesn't say a word when she pulls his hair. He doesn't even flinch when she slaps him across the face once during a heated argument—and really, it's probably for the best because his grandmother called Pansy a whore, and the argument was about how he hadn't said a bloody word in her defence until she had stormed out of the room.

To be fair, her parents can't fucking stand him. They think that if she's going to date a war hero, Harry Potter would be better for their name. She doesn't bother reminding them that even if Potter didn't prefer cock, that he'd be very unlikely to sleep with the girl who thought he'd be better off dead. Even if they were kind of almost sort of friendly these days.

Neville's friends tolerate her, but she knows that they whisper concerns in his ear that their relationship isn't healthy. It's probably not. They don't talk about things that happened before they got together. They should. Pansy knows he wants to, but she can't bring herself to open up because she's still angry that people see him as a hero and her as a coward.

Pansy's friends tolerate him, but they tell her that she shouldn't be with someone she might actually hate just a little.

"I don't hate him," Pansy says, casting a glare at Draco—who has little room to talk since he actually _is_ fucking his childhood nemesis.

"You act like you do. It looks like the two of you can't decide whether to fight or fuck."

Neville doesn't fight. At least not in public. Pansy has no such qualms about airing her grievances in front of people. They all think she's a nightmare anyway. He fights with her in private, though, and he can be a real prick about it too. She screams, and he pulls back and goes quiet, which only makes her look crazy compared to his composure.

He's full of rage, though.

His temper is just as bad as hers, he just directs it elsewhere. Privately. Or he buries it deep down, which Pansy thinks is just as fucked up as her lashing out.

She sees it when he comes back to their flat after visiting his parents or his grandmother, after a particularly difficult arrest—usually involving someone that Pansy recalls coming to dinner when she was a little girl. Death Eaters and Dark wizards. She knows them by name. Neville knows them by Azkaban brand numbers and case files.

They don't talk about it.

But Neville throws her down and pins her, loses control just a little bit. Just enough that it hurts. She _likes_ the way it hurts and encourages him to do more. When the Lestrange brothers are arrested and sent back to Azkaban, Neville fucks her so good she sees stars.

She gets chills when he's angry, the same way she did when they were at Hogwarts and he pinned her hand to the wall when she'd turned her wand on him. But then he kisses her slowly, and the warm fuzzy feeling glows inside of her, and she wonders if this is what it feels like to be loved.

She gets high off of his love.

He brings her flowers—never cut, always potted—and he's not so cliché to give her pansies like every other man with no imagination has ever done. Neville gives her daffodils, tulips, and burnt orchids that remind her of the ones in Narcissa Malfoy's garden. He tucks sprigs of lavender behind her ear when she's sick and looks disgusting or when she's had a really shit day trying to deal with her parents or the public.

Pansy follows him to all the little parties that his friends host, especially the important ones like celebrating marriages, children, and birthdays. She's by his side when they follow Potter and the other Gryffindors to Godric's Hollow on Halloween. Everyone pulls Potter into a tight embrace, offering condolences on something that happened two decades earlier—something he doesn't even remember.

Two days later, when everyone else returns to work after tucking memories of James and Lily Potter away for another year, Pansy sends Howlers to all of them to remind them that _Neville's_ parents basically died too, and just because he's not the Chosen One doesn't mean that he's any less deserving of their condolences.

She makes sure to remind Weasley that he's a hideous ginger, Granger that her hair is stupid, and Potter that he still dresses like a homeless person, which is really embarrassing for an Auror who's dating a Malfoy. She _tries_ to insult Lovegood, but somehow accidentally adopts her as a new best friend—or pet, Pansy's not sure—because she's always fucking around smiling like an idiot.

When things are good, Pansy almost feels like she can settle down.

She's not used to feeling safe.

Safety makes her anxiety stretch its arms, eager to find anything to latch fear onto.

She waits for a fight with Neville to happen; they always do. It's their normal. Hell, even people in _healthy_ relationships seem to have them. It comes. It's over something stupid, and he doesn't even really get angry, and for some reason that makes her feel worse.

She packs her bags.

* * *

"Where are you going?"

 _Stupid question_. She rolls her eyes, angry because they feel like they might start watering at any moment. There's a distinct prickle at the corner, but Pansy hasn't cried in years. She refuses. "I'm leaving you."

"Stay," he pleads, taking her hand. "When we're good, we're great."

She knows he's right.

"When it's bad, it's awful."

They could talk about it. It been years since the war, since they were in real danger, but that heavy beat of her heart never really stopped pounding, and she can't tell the difference anymore between scared and excited, between love and hate.

Neville scares her. His love is intense, and it burns.

But they don't talk about the past.

They don't talk about how he never tried to rescue a single Slytherin during that last truly horrible year, and how she thinks he's a bigoted arsehole for it even though he was just a scared child; it's the same excuse she tells herself when people hiss her name in passing like a curse.

They don't talk about how she tried to hand over one of his best friends to Voldemort or how she's not sure she wouldn't do it again if it brought about the same result. She still hasn't apologised to Potter even though they're almost kind of sort of friendly these days.

They don't talk about how her parents still call people like Granger "Mudbloods" or that the only reason they haven't outright demanded that Pansy leave Neville is because of his pristine lineage.

They don't talk about how she still hates the Weasleys or how she hasn't once been invited to Sunday dinner even though she and Neville have been dating for three years now, and _he_ goes every other weekend.

They don't talk about how, despite other former Gryffindors and Slytherins merging their worlds just fine, they just can't seem to do it without coming up short.

"I'm not giving up," he says like the reckless Gryffindor, the brave hero that he is. "I love you too much to walk away from this. Or to let _you_ walk away from me."

There's so much sincerity in his voice when he talks. She swears that if he pulls out an engagement ring, she's going to punch him in the face.

Pansy finally lets the words tumble out of her mouth.

Neville doesn't stop her.

She brings up the past, the war, their families and friends, and everything they _never_ talk about because they were on opposite sides. He retreats a bit, the same way he does whenever anything to do with Voldemort is brought up. He gets that look in his eyes, the one that says he wants to fuck her up against something particularly hard, and Pansy openly accuses him of using her and sex to hide his anger.

"You're the same as me," he says.

She smiles. Well, _that's_ for sure. Her fingers are already itching to tear his robes off.

* * *

"Do you love me?" he whispers against the back of her neck as he spoons up behind her, large arms wrapped around her waist. Her thighs are still shaking, she can still feel him inside of her, and the sweat drying on her body sends a cold chill over her skin. Her fingers are laced through his. His nails are dirty. She knows that he wants to leave the Aurors so he can play in the Scottish dirt. She saw a letter on the table from Professor Sprout who wants to take him on as an apprentice.

Pansy's bags are still sitting by the fireplace.

Maybe instead of running away, she can go with him.

Back to Hogwarts.

Maybe he can show her where the Room of Requirement is. She thinks she's earned that much. She wants to see how he survived. She wants to see where he was made strong.

"I hate you," she mutters petulantly and then feels him press his lips against her shoulder. His soft breath tickles the small hairs on the back of her neck.

This time, he doesn't believe her when she lies.


End file.
